


How Jack Became Jack

by Efstitt



Series: Pre-Strike Jack Hurts and two Post-Strike [1]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: A little profanity, Abandonment, Abuse, Angst, Author has serious anger issues, Best to take care of that in fiction, How Jack became a newsie, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-everything Jack, Prequel, Stealing, The Refuge, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-17 08:57:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21051719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Efstitt/pseuds/Efstitt
Summary: How Jack lost his parents, and what happened next. A little bit sketchier portrait of his mother, first trips to the Refuge, and how he became a newsie.





	1. Chapter 1

Jack started when the door slammed open, but breathed a sigh of relief to see it was Mrs. Ryan, not her husband. He turned back to the bucket. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ryan,” Jack said, scrubbing the plate in his hand a little faster. “I thought I’d have them done for you. I wanted to surprise you,” he said hopefully.

Mrs. Ryan sighed. “Go pull the laundry in, Jack. I told you before that you don’t do the dishes right anyway.”

He didn’t mean to drop her apron off of the line, and ran down to the street to get it before it got dirty again, but he was too late. That got him a smack across the face. No surprise there. More work for her now, so it was his fault. Her little kids stopped their game at the sound and looked up. Jack was embarrassed. He remembered being able to help his mama, but here he never seemed to get it right. Still no sign of Mr. Ryan.

When was his mother coming back, he wondered. She’d been gone for over a month. He’d given the landlord all of his money, promising that his mother would pay the rest when she got home the next day, but she hadn’t, and so he came home to find a padlock on his apartment door. New tenants had moved in. They’d paid extra since the apartment already had some furniture, the landlord said.

Jack knew that Mrs. Ryan had found him sleeping in the hall that night and was the first one to ask him what he was doing there. She had taken the time to bring him around to the orphanage, with him trying to explain he wasn’t an orphan, but it was full. She took him to all the other neighbors, but none of them would take in a half-grown boy. Mr. and Mrs. Ryan had said they’d do it as their Christian duty. And if he handed over his earnings as a messenger boy, which he did. Well, mostly.

His face still stinging, Jack tried to think of a way to get back on her good side. “Did my money help with the groceries today, Mrs. Ryan?” he asked. He had learned to carefully take some of the money he earned running messages and buy himself some food before returning to the Ryans’ apartment every day, but he kept hoping he could eat something in the mornings before he left.

“Your money. That’s rich. Your money pays for you to stay here, Jack. The extra work of taking care of you. You don’t even begin to make enough to pay for your board,” snapped Mrs. Ryan.

If there was anything left when they were done eating, Mrs. Ryan said he could have it, though. There wasn’t anywhere to sit in their apartment except the table or the beds, and since his bed was the chairs pushed together, he had found himself sitting at the table in the mornings and evenings watching them eat. He soon decided to leave early for work every day, and worked as late as he could. Sometimes he could find food along the way, or beg some from the back door of a restaurant, or take a few cents from his earning to buy something, praying the Ryans wouldn’t notice. Better than sitting there hoping for anything extra, day after day. Christmas had come and gone. For Christmas Jack got to sit in the stairwell during the Ryans’ family Christmas party. He had watched everyone from his spot that looked down on their hallway. No one ever looked up.

Jack swept the room and pushed the chairs together for the night. Mrs. Ryan started getting the little ones into bed when Mr. Ryan came home. Jack didn’t look at him, hoping Mr. Ryan would have forgotten. But no. Jack had bought himself a sandwich on his way home from work, and Mr. Ryan had seen. How did he let that happen, Jack asked himself. Too close to the apartment, too slow, too careless, too stupid. They’d know he was holding back.

Mr. Ryan roughly pulled Jack over to the table. “What did you think you were doing, boy? Hm? Stealing from us? The only people who would take you in? This is what you do?” He slapped Jack on the same cheek Mrs. Ryan had hit.

“I was hungry,” Jack stammered. “I wanted something to eat. It was just a sandwich. I gave you all the rest of my money.” How else was he supposed to eat, he wondered.

“Ungrateful thief. No wonder your mother left you.” Mr. Ryan began unbuckling his belt. “Get your shirt off, boy. Lie over the table.”

Jack’s father had given Jack the belt plenty before he died, but not like this. A couple of whacks on his behind, and that was usually it. This was longer. Harder. Jack tried not to cry. Was it so bad that he had wanted something to eat? The whacks went on and on. He gripped the opposite table edge and gritted his teeth, pushing his forehead into the table. Finally he let out a whimper, hoping maybe it would stop. The whacks continued. Jack started to cry. Suddenly he was yanked up by his hair.

“Crying? You want to cry?” shouted Mr. Ryan. “You get to sleep inside and make us take care of you, and you’re crying about it?” Another slap.

“You don’t take care of me!” shouted Jack. “You should give me food! I pay for it! I work! I...” He was cut short as he found himself thrown across the room, hitting his back against the floor. He gasped from the pain and rolled over. Mr. Ryan was kicking him, shouting at him.

Jack scrambled away from him, pushing the little ones out of his way. He grabbed his shirt from the floor and fled.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack ran outside and across the street before he stopped. He turned back to the tenement, knowing that the Ryans’ room faced the street and had a window. Catching his breath in the cold, clutching his shirt in front of him, he looked up at the window. Jack hoped maybe someone would be looking out, maybe looking for him. Maybe Mrs. Ryan told Mr. Ryan that Jack had tried to help with the chores, even if he wasn’t good at it. That he was a good boy, and should come back in. He looked at the door to the street, hoping Mrs. Ryan would come out and look around for him, or even Mr. Ryan would come out and say he was sorry and wouldn’t Jack come back in, please. He shivered and waited. And waited. His back ached and stung, but he put his shirt back on, even though it hurt. He watched the window, counting to one hundred, then two hundred. Maybe if he counted some more, someone would look for him.

The light went out. No one came out the door.

“Move along, kid. No loitering,” a deep voice said. Jack jumped and saw a bull walking toward him.

“I live here,” he said. “I’m just waiting… for… I forgot my key. I’m waiting for my mother,” he said.

“Move it along. No standing around. Go inside and wait for your mother there,” the cop said.

“Yes, sir,” said Jack. He started slowly across the street, and watched the cop keep walking down the block. Jack darted into the alley.

He hadn’t exactly lied. He was waiting for his mother. What had she said? She was going where someone would love her. Jack didn’t understand that. He loved her. But who else loved her? Papa had, sort of, but he was dead. She had worked a lot of nights, he knew, at the one house a few blocks from here. Maybe someone there loved her, but he didn’t think so. Men were mean at night. But maybe.

He knocked on the back door of the house, hoping one of the ladies would answer. He shook from the cold. He was happy to see a lady who had been nice to him answer the door.

“Jack, what are you doing here?” she asked. “It’s getting late. You need to get home.”

“Have you seen my mama?” he blurted out, not knowing what else to say. “Is she here?”

“No, baby,” she said. “I ain’t seen her for a while. What’s wrong?”

“She ain’t come home since last month. She said she had to go where someone loved her. You sure she ain’t here?” he asked.

“Baby, that wouldn’t be here, I promise,” she said. “Come in and I’ll ask the other girls, though. You must be freezing. Sit over there by the kitchen stove.”

Jack sat and waited, glad to be warm, still trying not to cry about his whipping. He was too big to cry, he knew that. It had just hurt so much.

His mama’s friend returned. “Jack, honey, no one’s seen her in a while.”

“Oh,” he said. Now what. “Thank you.” Where would he go? “Um…can I just stay here for a while?” He twisted his hands. One minute at a time. Just stay here where it was warm until he could figure it out.

“Baby, you know we get busy here pretty soon. This ain’t a place for you to be,” she said kindly.

“I’ll stay out of the way. I’ll clean the kitchen for you,” he offered. “I won’t be no trouble.”

A shout from the front room. She kissed the top of his head and said, “Don’t let my boss see you, okay? Tell him I said for you to wait here a while.” Jack nodded. He moved behind the counter and crouched down, head on his knees, until she came back hours later holding a blanket. “My boss said you can sleep in the shed—he ain’t crazy about kids in the house. I gotta go, honey.”

Jack took the blanket and stumbled out to the shed.

Jack kept his job as a messenger boy. He was free. He learned fast that charming the cooks, the maids, the butlers, the secretaries, and the clerks meant that he could talk to them more, which meant staying inside more. His smile got him a lot of time in warm rooms. Maybe he lost a few chances to deliver since he talked so much, but more money didn’t help you if you froze to death.

Jack kept going back to the shed to sleep. It was a poor substitute for the Ryans’ apartment, which at least had had a little stove, but he found that sometimes he could stay in the kitchen until well into the night before having to actually leave. Another one of the girls had given him a blanket, so he did have two, which Jack liked. He lost track of time. Days, weeks passed.

But men were mean at night. Still.

Jack awoke from his spot behind the counter to the not unfamiliar sound of a girl getting slapped. It was Mama’s friend, though. Jack jumped up and pushed the door open to the parlor. Two young men stood over the girl, who was holding her hand to her cheek.

“What do you think you’re doing!” Jack shouted. “She’s a nice lady! Leave her alone!”

The two men turned their attention to Jack, who realized that maybe he was in trouble now. They approached him slowly as he backed into the wall.

“You her kid? We ain’t paying you for your opinion, you know,” said the one.

“Just… just leave her alone,” said Jack, clenching his fists.

“No,” said the other. Jack put up his fists, only to find himself lifted up and held by his arms. Someone punched his face, his ribs, and his stomach. His head snapped from one side to the other. His jaw. His cheek. His eye. And again. He couldn't breathe. He couldn’t think. Blood dripped from his face. He thought he could see the girls bunched in the corner of the room, watching.

“Oscar, stop!” the girl cried.

“You got anything else to say, kid?” Jack hung there, not moving. “We didn’t think so.” They dropped him on the floor.

“Get back to work, girls,” someone said. "And you, kid, get back to the shed before I decide you don't live here no more." Jack wasn't sure he could move at all. But he crawled back to the kitchen and sat there for a few minutes, catching his breath and figuring out where the blood was coming from. He found a rag and tried to clean himself up.

Jack went back to work the next day. He washed off as much of the dried blood as he could. He had a lot of messages at the big houses today. Maybe some of them would look at him and give him some leftovers, or a tip. Maybe. He practiced smiling, but succeeded only in reopening his split lip.

One delivery was to a familiar house. They usually didn’t tip, but the cook would give him little things every now and then. The cook let him in, raising her eyebrows at the sight of him, and asked him to wait while she went and got the money to pay him. He leaned against the wall, and then noticed the ham being sliced for the day’s dinner. Would they miss a piece? Probably not. Fold it in half and it would fit in his pocket, he bet. Peering around the corner, he saw no one, and slipped over to the counter. He quickly took a piece and shoved it in his pocket.

“What are you doing?” said a girl behind him. Shit. He hadn’t seen the door to the pantry. This girl was no maid. She was in the family, no doubt.

“Just looking at your dinner,” he said, grinning broadly, trying to ignore the split. “Looks nice.”

She stared at his face. “What happened to you?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. Where was the cook?

“It doesn’t look like nothing. Who beat you up?” she asked again.

“Nobody,” he said. What was it to her, anyway? Was she going to do something about it?

The cook returned and handed him his money. “Mr. Pulitzer was on the telephone.” Jack left, fast.


	3. Chapter 3

Jack honed his skills in petty theft. An apple here, a roll there, a dime, a hat, a handkerchief, a nickel. He got so good at it he was able to save enough money to get a coat from the barrel at the back of the clothing store. It was missing a pocket and all the front buttons, the cuffs were worn through, the elbows had holes, but it was a lot better than not having a coat.

Jack noticed that his growing abilities were not unnoticed. The bulls followed him when he went to the nicer neighborhoods. They watched him deliver messages and head back down the street. They pulled him into alleys and searched him. A black eye was usually Jack’s reward when they didn’t find anything, in addition to taking his money. A threat to go to the Refuge was usually the reward when they did, although so far they still settled for giving him a black eye and taking his money. Jack learned that arguing with them left him in worse shape than that.

He wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been living at the house. He got good at sizing up his chances at fights in the house, which got better as he grew. He lost more than he won, but he did win a few. Jack liked the ladies—they occasionally shared tips, gave him haircuts, and his favorite, a kiss on the head. He forgot he was waiting for his mother.

Another winter came. The barrel was his best bet for finding bigger clothes. The shoes didn’t always match, or if they did, they weren’t always the right size, but most times he didn’t have much choice. The bulls were on him more and more. They took his money, so he stole more. He got stopped more because he stole more. Jack tried to stick to back alleys and rooftops.

He still delivered in the better neighborhoods, including the Pulitzers’ house. He didn’t try to take much there since the cook was usually nice to him. He saw the girl only one other time, the day after being searched by the bulls again. He’d just taken a quarter out of the open till at the grocery and slipped four potatoes into his pants pockets and inside his shirt. It was a good haul, and he’d almost made it to the back alley when he was shoved up against the wall. The money and potatoes came out. Jack ended the encounter on the ground, his nose bleeding, breath knocked out of him, and his face starting to swell. By the next day, the left side of his face was black and blue, his eye swollen shut, and he was once again broke. As he waited for the cook to get his money, he felt someone watching him. He turned and saw the girl. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass door: ripped and too-big clothes from the barrel, shoes mismatched, beaten face.

“What happened to you?” she asked, again.

“Nothing,” he said, again. He rubbed his nose with his sleeve.

“Who beat you up?” she asked.

“Coppers,” he said. “They think I steal stuff.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

Jack was desperate to get ready for winter. He had outgrown his coat, and stole more food so he could buy another coat. He would get close, then get stopped by the cops. Jack decided that he would just steal the coat and get it over with. The shop owner knew him by now. He knew Jack paid, so Jack figured he could steal the coat since he had the owner’s trust.

Jack came in several times looking in the barrel for a coat that would fit. The day Jack tried slipping out, the owner had signaled the cops on the street, knowing this day would come. They didn’t even rough him up. The difference now was that the owner wanted to press charges. Jack stood handcuffed before a judge and was sentenced to six months in the Refuge.


	4. Chapter 4

Jack had heard about the Refuge. The other messengers talked about it. The bulls had threatened him with it enough that he asked the ladies about it. They had known kids who had been sent there. None of it sounded good. But, he thought, he knew how to fight. He knew how to work. He’d been hungry plenty of times. Jack stood in front of the judge, hands cuffed behind him, looking up defiantly. He wasn’t scared. The Refuge beat the kids, he’d heard. So what else was new, thought Jack. I get beat all the time. He saw the judge observe him. What’s he looking at. Ain’t he never seen a thief before?

Six months. He’d be inside over the winter this year, at least, right. He just wished he could tell the ladies where he’d be. Maybe they’d worry. Maybe not. Would they notice, he wondered. Or just think he’d run away.

Chained in the back of the police wagon, Jack watched his breath come out in clouds. The officer riding in back with him just grinned at him.

“Think you’re really a tough fellow, don’t you,” he said. Jack just looked at him. “Snyder will enjoy you. Yes, he will.”

Jack found himself getting angrier and angrier. This bull didn’t know him. Jack was plenty tough. Just ask the bulls that harassed him all the time. Ask anyone. He hadn’t wanted to steal. He knew how to be good, but that didn’t get you food. Or clothes. Or a place to stay. Or a mama. Shit. He leaned forward and looked at the floor, trying to keep steady. At the Refuge, Jack was dragged out the back of the wagon and onto his knees on the paving stones. He looked up at the officer who rode with him in the back, and spat at him. The officer raised his baton, but Jack didn’t look away. Before the baton came down, he heard a chuckle.

“No need, officer,” said Snyder. “I’ll take him from here and cure him of that.”

Jack stood in front of Snyder’s desk. Snyder had put his own cuffs on him and given the cops their cuffs back. Jack looked at the wall opposite him, above Snyder’s head.

“The rules don’t apply to you, is that it,” asked Snyder. “You just take what you want.” Jack didn’t answer. “You fight the bulls, yes? Your little demonstration just now told me quite a lot. You don’t feel the need to comply with law enforcement? You are above the law?”

Jack didn’t know what Snyder wanted him to say. He stood still and stared straight ahead.

“Your stay here will teach you to obey the law, boy, make no mistake. You will be my special project until you show some respect.” Snyder walked around Jack, observing. “You fight a lot, am I right?” Jack didn’t respond. “The first thing you will learn is how to answer me. You seem to be at a loss.”

Snyder motioned for a guard to unlock Jack’s handcuffs. “You will take off your shirt, boy.” Jack looked over at Snyder to see if he was serious. Mr. Ryan had been the last one to tell him to do that.

“No,” said Jack.

“I beg your pardon,” Snyder nearly whispered. He began to smile.

“No,” said Jack.

Snyder looked at his guards and tilted his head toward Jack. Jack felt himself be lifted up and thrown down. His head hit the floor first. He was twisted onto his back. A guard straddled him and ripped his shirt open from the front. Jack was then turned over and his shirt torn off entirely. One guard stayed on top of him, knee on his back, while the other guard cuffed his hands to the heavy leg of the desk. The guard on his back moved down to his legs. It was over in a matter of seconds.

Jack saw Snyder’s boots approach his face. “Boy, today you will learn how to answer me. You see this?” Snyder dangled a three-tailed whip in front of Jack’s face. “You will say ‘yes, sir’ every time you feel it.” Jack turned his head to look at Snyder’s face. “You should feel proud, Jack. Most boys start off with a very basic black eye for their first beating here. You have exceeded my expectations.”

Snyder’s boots moved away. The guard on his legs put ankle cuffs on him and stood up.

Jack braced himself for the hit. The whip slashed through the air and cracked on his back with a pain he had never imagined. The three strands cut into his back.

“Say it,” said Snyder. Say what, wondered Jack, writhing on the floor. Another crack.

“Say it,” said Snyder. Yes, sir, Jack remembered. Yes, he would say it, say anything to stop this pain.

“No, sir,” he half whispered, half choked out. Why did he say that.

“Try again.” Crack.

“No, sir,” Jack half shouted. And again the whip came down.

“No, sir,” he cried. What was it going to take?

Four more times Snyder brought the whip down. Four times Jack answered with a “no, sir.” Jack prayed it would stop. The boots came over to his face. Jack had no idea why he was not saying yes.

“We’ll work on this very simple lesson some more tomorrow, Jack.”


	5. Chapter 5

Jack couldn’t move. He felt himself being dragged to a room and dropped on the floor. Other kids were there, he could see.

“What’s he in for?” someone asked. “What’d he do?”

“Stealing. And he said no to Snyder. Clean him up,” came the reply. Footsteps, a door shutting and locking.

Someone was sloshing water around in a bucket, and Jack winced and stifled a whimper when a cloth started to gently wash his back. “Hold still,” the kid said. “I’m good at this, but not if you move around.”

Jack willed himself to be still. He closed his eyes.

“So what kind of dumbass says no to Snyder?” the voice continued. “You want to walk out of here of not?”

Jack turned his head so he could put a face to the voice. A red-headed kid looked back at him. “Ten Pin,” the kid said. “I been here a while.”

Jack closed his eyes again. “I ain’t a dumbass,” he said.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Ten Pin. “But I’ll tell you one thing. Snyder ain’t the kind to forget or to let up. He can add time to your sentence anytime he wants. Just do what he says. You don’t gotta mean it or nothing, but you’ll get out on time.”

The morning whistle blew, and Jack found himself being pulled up off the floor. “You gotta line up or you’ll end up worse than you are now,” said Ten Pin. Jack felt around for his shirt, but it wasn’t there. He felt embarrassed to get in line not fully dressed, but Ten Pin pulled him to the hallway.

Jack staggered into line, trying to figure out what was going on. Snyder can down the hall, taking roll. He stopped at Jack and watched him for a minute. “Turn around,” he said. Jack obeyed, taking Ten Pin’s advice. Snyder smiled at the sight of Jack’s back, and ordered him to turn back around. Jack obeyed again.

The dining hall was silent as they picked up their bowls. Jack managed to stay upright and get some food in his bowl, but Snyder stopped him with a baton across his chest before he could sit down at a bench. “Not you. Not yet.” Jack stood there until Snyder saw that everyone else had been seated. All eyes were on him.

“This boy, as you can see, is our newest arrival. He has already proven to be an animal. He does not know you need to be dressed when you eat at the table. He does not know that the polite answer to a request is ‘yes, sir,’ for which he has already been disciplined, as you can see. Now please show him how he should eat.” Snyder blew a whistle, and Jack saw everyone begin to eat. It didn’t take long to finish, but he stood there holding his bowl, wondering when he would be able to eat. Snyder knocked the bowl out of his hands, splattering the food on the floor. “Clean that up,” he said. “And don’t be late for the work whistle.”

Jack looked around, wondering where he was supposed to get something to clean up the mess. Ten Pin glanced over to the kitchen, and Jack stumbled over and asked the cook to show him the clean rags and bucket. The cook nodded at a supply cabinet, and it took everything Jack had to fill and carry the bucket with water, and to get down to clean the floor. His back wasn’t healed. Where was he supposed to work, he wondered. How much time do I have? As he finished, one of the guards tossed Jack’s shirt on the wet floor. Jack put it on, trying to keep it from touching his back too much. The shirt didn’t close anymore after yesterday, so he had to leave it hanging open in the front. Better than nothing, he thought.

Jack pushed himself back up to standing, and managed to empty the bucket and put the supplies away before the next whistle. He had no idea what to do. Another boy came up to him and said, “Racetrack. Follow me, kid.”

Jack knew the Refuge was connected to some of the textile mills, and he knew that’s where most of the Refuge kids worked. He knew other kids who worked in them, but he’d never been inside. It was as hot as the bunk rooms were cold. Jack looked around the room, checking for windows or doors. The windows were high. The doors were chained and had guards. Racetrack stayed with him and showed him how to replace the threads on the machines and fix the parts. Jack sweated through the day, moving more slowly than Race because of his back, until twelve hours later the whistle blew again. They lined up and went back to the dining hall. Before Jack could get a bowl, Snyder stopped Jack with his baton. “My office,” he said. Two guards grabbed Jack and marched him down the hall.

Jack was put in the middle of the room. He rolled a shoulder, getting ready for another beating. The sweat from the workday had soaked some of his shirt. He tried pulling it closed. A guard pulled his hands behind his back and handcuffed him.

He felt Snyder walk behind him. “Your first complete day as a convict, Kelly. I trust it was rewarding.” Jack was silent.

“Have we forgotten our manners so soon?” Snyder asked, smiling. He slapped Jack’s face. “You answer me, boy.” Jack wasn’t sure if he should say yes or no. Another slap.

“Yes, sir,” Jack said, just to say something.

“Aha. You can learn. I was wondering if a worthless boy like you could learn. How many people is it, thief, that have tried to educate you but found you were hopeless?” Snyder asked quietly. “Oh yes, Kelly. After your introduction to me yesterday, I found out all about you.” Jack pressed his lips together. What was Snyder getting at? Jack knew he was a thief. So what.

“No wonder you’re here, boy. An abandoned orphan...” Snyder continued.

“I’m not an orphan,” Jack interrupted, irritated. Snyder smiled.

“That’s right. Where is your whore mother? She’s come to see you? You know she’s still alive, do you?”

Jack clenched his jaw and didn’t reply. Another smack across the face.

“No, sir,” Jack said tensely. “I don’t know.”

“And why would your whore mother come see a piece of garbage, anyway? An ignorant reject like you. How long did you manage to stay with the neighbors before they threw you away?” Snyder asked, grinning now. Jack had no idea how Snyder knew these things. He felt nervous, exposed.

“I don’t remember,” Jack said. Snyder raised a hand. “Sir.”

“If my sources have it right, the only place who would take you was the whorehouse. Even they wouldn’t let you stay inside, filthy criminal that you are. The orphanage turned you away. Your neighbors wouldn’t take a boy like you either, at least not for long. No wonder your mother dumped you and didn’t come back.” Snyder waited, expectantly.

“Yes, sir,” Jack said. He almost wanted a beating instead of this.

“You’re nothing but a convict now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you deserve your beating yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are learning. Tell me what you have learned.”

“I’m nothing but a convict, sir. I deserved my beating yesterday.” Jack repeated.

Jack would get used to this conversation. He worked. He slept. Snyder whipped Jack until Snyder forced him to beg for mercy. Jack learned the difference between a strap and a cane, and all the other choices in Snyder’s closet. And Jack repeated what Snyder said to him. Worthless. Ignorant. Reject. After six months, Jack was released.


	6. Chapter 6

Jack stood outside the gate of the Refuge. Free. He watched the carts and carriages pass by, and listened to people shouting and talking. It was warm, at least. He wasn’t sweating in the factory. No one was shouting at him. Or hitting him. Race and Ten Pin had said they’d see him soon. Slowly, Jack turned down the street and started to walk. Could he get his messenger job back? Would they remember him at the house?

He stood at the back door of the house, still deciding if he should knock. Would they still give him a blanket? For free? Would one of the girls lend him some money so he could eat? Jack felt humiliated. He had nothing to offer. He just wanted their money. Why would they give him anything? What had he ever done for them?

His arm stiff, he lifted his hand and pounded the door. Heavy footsteps. Shit. A man. A man opened the door, someone Jack had never seen before.

“What do you want?” the man asked.

Jack struggled to decide if he should say anything. What would he say? “I’m Jack Kelly. I, um, used to stay here. Before I got arrested. Are any of the ladies here?” he asked.

“They’re sleeping. And you’re too young to want them anyway,” spat the man. “Get lost.” Jack turned to go, embarrassed and feeling stupid.

“Jack? Honey? Oh, Bill, let me talk to him,” said a familiar voice. Jack turned back to see his favorite lady, who actually was smiling as Jack turned around. Her face quickly changed, her eyes widening. “Oh, Jack.”

She pulled Jack aside. “Baby, you can’t stay here no more. Bill ain’t as nice. But tell you what, let me get dressed and I’ll take you to someplace.” She disappeared for a few minutes as Jack stood awkwardly outside the door, eyeing Bill, not wanting to fight, but not sure if he’d have the choice.

A short while later, Jack was standing outside the back door of a theater, not really listening to the talking, and then quietly being introduced to a big lady called Medda. Medda looked Jack up and down. Jack stood still. What was he doing here? He didn’t know anything about working in a theater. Why would a strange lady lend him money? Mama’s friend left, kissing Jack’s head and squeezing his hand before disappearing down the alley. Jack stood there, uncertain about what to do. Medda took his hand, but Jack yanked it back. What was this? What did she want? He started to back away.

“Jack, you can come in if you want. You can sit down. I’ve got some lunch about ready, and I can fix some for you, too.”

“How much?” Jack asked, warily. Not that he had any money, he thought.

“First lunch is on me,” Medda answered. “I might have some ideas on where you can stay, too.”

“What’s in it for you?” Jack asked, getting suspicious. What was she trying to do? Who else was in there? Why would she give him free food?

Medda laughed. “Nothing, baby. Listen, I’ll bring some food out here and you can think about if you want to come inside.” Jack looked at her, and didn’t move. She brought an apple and a cheese sandwich out to the alley and offered them to Jack. Jack looked around. Was this a trap? No bulls around. He tried to look inside the door to see if someone was there, waiting to catch him stealing the food.

“Ain’t no one there, honey,” said Medda. “I’ve got work to do. I’ll just leave this here. If you want to come in and talk to me, you can.”

Jack watched her leave. He waited some more. He snatched up the sandwich and shoved it in his mouth. Jack swallowed and glanced around again before taking the apple and eating it whole. He wasn’t dumb enough to leave evidence that there had been food out here. Nothing happened. No one grabbed him or hit him.

Slowly he approached the door. He opened it cautiously, looking all over for someone waiting for him in the shadows. No one was there. Medda had been telling the truth. He stepped inside. There was a short hallway with rooms on each side. He slowly made his way to the first room, shifting his weight if the floor started to squeak. No one was in there. There was a bed, a desk, and a big mirror on the wall next to it. Jack saw himself for the first time in ages. He took a good look. He knew his shirt was a little short on his arms these days. He’d undone the cuffs long ago to make them a little looser. The arms had some newer rips. It still hung open in front, as it had for all six months. A lot of bruises showed, just not all of them. His pants were too short, with holes in the knees and the cuffs frayed to different lengths; the piece of rope he’d used for a belt as he lost weight was frayed. One of the older boys had given Jack his boots when he’d outgrown them, and they weren’t too worn out. One didn’t have laces anymore, but he knew that already. He looked at his face. About what he expected. His last beating had been pretty bad. Snyder said it was his going away present. This time the guards had taken him to one of the solitary cells, chained his hands above his head on the bars on the door, and Snyder hadn’t left much undone with his fists.

Jack left the room and continued down the hall. He wished he didn’t have to go looking for this lady. What ideas did she have, anyway? And why would she care where he stayed? It was warm outside. He could find some alley somewhere and figure something out.

“In here, Jack,” Medda called out. He hadn’t even noticed her behind the rack of clothes in the second room. Jack stopped and looked behind the door before looking at her. He nearly jumped when he saw a boy sitting on a stool.

“Jack, meet Crutchie. That’s not his real name, but he likes it anyway.”

“Hi,” Jack said, trying not to sound startled. What was this kid doing here? He saw the crutch. Crutchie smiled at him. He’s younger than me, Jack realized. Nothing to be afraid of, you dumb coward, he told himself.

“Crutchie,” Medda continued, “I think Jack here could give you a hand with the littles at the lodge. You need some help with Race being gone so long.”

It was like Medda was speaking a different language. Littles. Lodge. And they knew Race?

“I know a kid named Race,” said Jack.

“I bet you do,” said Medda. “And Crutchie needs some help. You’ll help him, won’t you, Jack?”

Jack looked at Crutchie. “Yeah, sure.” It’s not like Jack had other plans. But he needed money. He looked at Medda. “You hiring? You got work that needs to be done?”

Medda looked at Jack and laughed. What was she laughing at? He had to eat, and it’s not like she was going to hand out free food again. He needed rent. He’d help this Crutchie kid, but he needed a job.

Crutchie finally spoke. “If you sell papes you can pay rent to stay at the lodge, Jack. It ain’t a bad deal.” Jack thought about this. He’d seen and known newsies before, of course. It might be just as good as a messenger job, and this one came with a place to sleep.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. Jack couldn’t figure out who Medda was or what Crutchie was doing there, or how he had ended up there himself, but he wasn’t going to ask a lot of questions if he was going to walk out of there with a job and a place to stay. This lady had even fed him, no questions asked. He looked over at her. She hadn’t had him arrested yet for taking her food. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Someone who gives a damn, Jack,” she answered.


	7. Chapter 7

But I need money, Jack thought. Selling papes and staying in the lodge sounded good, and Crutchie seemed like a good kid, but how was he supposed to get money to buy the papes in the first place. Or pay for his first night in the lodge. Same way he always had, he guessed. He’d steal the money today or tonight, since Medda had laughed at him for wanting to work for her. He could sleep on the street tonight if he didn’t steal enough.

“Okay,” Jack said. “I’ll see you in the morning, Crutchie. And I’ll help you after if you still want me to. Thanks for the food, Miss Medda. That was real nice.” Jack looked down and went back into the hall.

"Where are you going, Jack?” Medda called after him. “I can find you a shoelace or something if you want.”

“I gotta go. Thanks again for the food.” Jack rushed down the hall and banged out the door. He got a job lined up. That was good. And he got some food. Also good. He’d be set by tomorrow after he made a little money. But tonight... He heard an uneven thump come after him, and turned to see Crutchie.

“Jack, where are you going?” Crutchie asked. “You can stay here tonight.”

“I got things to do,” Jack said. “See you tomorrow.” He deliberately walked faster so Crutchie couldn’t keep up. Jack wasn’t about to stay. He couldn’t pay for it. She wasn’t going to let him work. And how much was a shoelace anyway? He wasn’t going to owe anybody anything if he could help it. If something went wrong, she’d call the bulls and he’d be right back in the Refuge. No way.

He walked for a while, trying to look like he was going somewhere. Most people either ignored him or tried not to stare. Money. Money. He went into a shop, but the clerk stayed put at the till. He entered another, and the clerk moved over to the till. Same thing in shops three and four. This wasn’t going to work.

It had been a while since he had picked someone’s pocket. He didn’t need all that, though. Maybe twenty cents to buy some papes tomorrow? No need to take a whole wallet. Begging would work better before it got dark and people would be scared of stopping. The bulls would be on him fast if he begged, so he’d have to be careful. People didn’t always take kindly to boys begging. Girls, yes. Boys, no. Get the money, Kelly. Just get it. He found a corner where he could see pretty well if the bulls were nearby, although his one eye couldn’t open completely just yet. He saw a well-dressed woman.

“Please, miss, a dime?” he begged, holding out his hand. Jack saw how she looked at him. With pity. Disgust. Shock. And yes, fear. And she walked on. Fear. He was about her height, he realized. She thought he might attack. He got on his knees. Not a new position for him lately. At least no one was beating him, he thought grimly. Not yet, anyway.

Staying on his knees, he held out his hand to another lady. “Please, miss, a dime?” he asked again. He saw her look at her escort and nudge him.

“Give him a dime, dear,” she said. The man looked at Jack with contempt and dropped a nickel on the sidewalk. Jack scrambled after it. A start.

Next a girl walking with her mother. Jack begged from the mother, who looked away and kept walking. The girl let go of her mother’s hand, ran back to Jack, and put a quarter in his hand. He looked at her, surprised. As he started to close his hand around the quarter, her mother plucked it out.

“He’s not working for it, darling,” she said. “Don’t encourage him.”

“But Mama,” the girl started.

“Give him a penny if you must, then,” sighed the mother. “But don’t touch him. He’s filthy.” She looked at Jack. “Get a job.” Jack looked down and nodded. He didn’t need this mother getting upset and drawing attention to him.

By the time he got to eight cents, he heard the rumble of thunder. He didn’t mind getting wet, but it meant no one would be on the sidewalks, either. The rain came fast. Jack wiped the rain off his face and kept looking for someone else to beg from when the flash of a badge caught his attention. Jack looked at the bull coming toward him, got up, and started moving as fast as he could. Not fast enough. He pulled off his one boot without the shoelace and began to run, his bruises aching. Still not fast enough. The bull caught his shirt and pulled him down.

“What’s your rush, boy? Where you headed?” the bull demanded, kneeling on Jack’s back.

“Medda’s theater. I work there,” Jack gasped. His back and bruises were on fire with the cop on his back. “Take me there and you’ll see.”

Jack tried to think fast as he was dragged to Medda’s theater. Would she back up his lie? Would Crutchie still be there?

Medda

My one stagehand came to get me. “Miss Medda, you need to come to the lobby entrance, please,” he said. “The bulls are here.”

I entered the lobby to see one cop gripping the arm of that boy Jack. I have seen a lot of pain in my life, and a lot of trouble with others. But this boy... And he was angry. He glared at me, daring me to something. I wasn’t sure what.

“Is he yours?” the cop asked me. “Does he work here? I found him begging on the street.” I looked at Jack. He stared at the wall behind me, dripping wet, clutching his boot.

“Yes, officer, he does,” I replied. “Thank you for bringing him in out of the rain. If you stop by the box office on your way out, you can have two tickets to tonight’s show if you like.” The cop smiled, tipped his cap at me, and trotted off for his tickets. So easy.

I looked at Jack. “Welcome back,” I said. He was silent. “Why did you run?” I tried again. “I gave you a sandwich, you know. I was trying to be friendly.”

“Thank you, Miss Medda. I didn’t deserve that,” he said, teeth clenched. Good. He’s talking.

“I was going to get you a shoelace for that boot,” I went on, as if he didn’t look like he wanted to murder me.

“Thank you, Miss Medda,” he said again, “but I ain’t got money for that.” He paused. “Well, I got eight cents now, but I gotta use that to buy papes tomorrow morning.”

“Jack, the shoelace ain’t nothing. It’s a gift. You don’t have to pay for it,” I said, shocked. He looked at me cautiously. “Stay here tonight, Jack. We’ll find a shoelace.”

He looked away again, at the wall. “No, thank you, ma’am. I ain’t got money to stay here neither. Thank you again for the sandwich. And the apple.” He bent down to put his boot back on, stood up, and looked at me again with a hard look.

One last try. “Jack, you can stay here for free tonight. The shoelace is free. I’ll get you through tonight so you can start work in the morning. It’s raining out. Where are you gonna go?”

“It don’t matter,” he said. He backed toward the door, hand on the handle. He took a breath. “If you want me to work tomorrow so bad, how come you wouldn’t let me work here today? How come you laughed when I said I wanted to work? I don’t need no free nothing.” The anger came back. He wasn’t going to last here much longer in my lobby before he ran again.

I see. I looked at the bruised, wet, ragged boy in front of me. I waited again. “I’m sorry I laughed, Jack. I didn’t mean to do that. I was surprised, is all. You looked like you could use some rest, not work. But I was wrong. If you sweep the seats in the theater after the show, you can stay here tonight. If you wash my dinner dishes, I’ll give you the shoelace. How does that sound?”

His hand came off the handle. “I don’t know where the brooms are kept, Miss Medda.”


	8. Chapter 8

Jack’s whole body ached, but he enjoyed sweeping the theater. It wasn’t hard work, but he could see why Miss Medda wanted it done, so he felt helpful. He stopped when he found a dime. He picked it up. Would she know if he took it? How would she? Or would Crutchie tell her how much money he had in the morning when he bought his papes, and she’d figure out that he stole a dime from somewhere. He slipped it in his pocket and finished up.

“I’m done, Miss Medda,” he called up to her on the stage.

“Fine, thank you, Jack,” she replied. He liked being thanked. He hoped he did a good job for her. He let himself smile a little. “You can stay in that first room off the hall near the back door. You saw it earlier.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He’d better show her the dime. He put the broom and dustpan away and went up on stage. “Um, Miss Medda?” She turned to him. “I, uh, found this dime.” He stuck it out to her. How should he ask if he could keep it? But she’d been real nice with the bull. She could have had him back in the Refuge already if she’d wanted. What was a dime compared to that. Miss Medda took the dime, and turned it over in her hand.

“I didn’t steal it, I swear,” Jack started in nervously. “I really did find it. On the floor. Over there.” He pointed. What had he done now. He could forget about staying here tonight. He’d better get moving before she got the bulls. Jack stepped back, looking for the exits.

Medda held the dime out to him. “You found it, you keep it,” she said, smiling. He looked at her arms, her wrists. If she grabbed him when he took the dime, he could break away, no problem. If she hit him, it wouldn’t hurt that much. He took the dime.

“Thank you, Miss Medda,” he said softly.

Jack sat on the bed, enjoying having it to himself. He admired his new shoelace. He put his money in his boot, partly happy and partly not wanting to think about how he had resorted to begging. Grateful to be out of the Refuge but wondering who would get beat on the most now that he was gone. Jack luxuriated in pulling the blanket over himself. He closed his eyes and did not dream.

Crutchie thought he was so funny, whacking Jack’s bed with his crutch to wake him up.

“Jacky, look what I brung you,” he said excitedly. Jack groaned as he sat up, his bruises stiff. He looked at Crutchie. He was holding up a shirt.

“Crutchie, I ain’t got money for that,” he said.

“It ain’t for you to buy, neither,” said Crutchie. “It’s Race’s. He had two shirts, and I been keeping the one for him until he gets out. You can wear it for now. You’ll probably be able to get your own before he gets out.” Jack looked at the shirt. No holes. No rips. It looked pretty good—better than anything Jack had had in a long time. He knew Race wouldn’t mind, and if he did, Jack would make it up to him later.

“I figured you’d want to make a good impression today,” Crutchie smiled. Jack couldn’t help himself, and smiled back. He put on the shirt.

Crutchie chattered the whole way to the distribution center, telling Jack everyone’s names before he even met them. Jack just let him talk.

Selling wasn’t so hard. He could sell more real easy as soon as he had the money. He could go where he liked, but stuck with Crutchie. At the end of the day they bought dinner and headed to the lodge, eating as they walked; Crutchie wanted help getting the littler boys to bed. Jack had never done anything like that, but soon discovered that they mostly wanted more stories before going to sleep. Well, he could do that. His mama had told him all kinds of stories, and Jack was good at making up stories out of his head. Jack found he enjoyed having an audience, too. The older newsies would sometimes listen in as well.

Being a newsie suited Jack. Months passed. A bed with Crutchie, and being able to eat most days, was pretty good. He bought himself his own shirt and newer pants. No one beat him, although there were regular fights. A cop might push him around, but nothing he wasn’t already used to. The littles grew on him, and he liked checking on them every night.

And then Race came back.


	9. Chapter 9

“Pipe down,” whispered Jack harshly, “he’s sleeping.” Race crawled out onto the fire escape where Jack was sitting with a kid leaned up against him. Jack wondered if he’d ever get a moment’s peace, but he kind of liked it when the little kids came to him when they had a bad dream. They always seemed to find him, even out here.

Race rolled his eyes. “Jack, we gotta talk about this.”

“So talk. Just be quiet about it.” Jack didn’t like where Race was going with this, but he said he’d hear him out. Jack owed him after all Race had done for him, after all, he figured.

“It’s gonna get cold soon. We can do this. Finch said he’d come get it. He’ll be out there next Friday night. We just have to get it over the wall,” Race said.

“And then what? Like they ain’t gonna notice new clothes? Or that kids ain’t as hungry as usual?” Jack rolled his eyes this time. “And I’m done stealing the big stuff, anyway. It ain’t worth it.”

Race laughed quietly. “You just taught a kid this afternoon how to steal an apple,” he said. “You taught all of them how to pick someone’s pocket.”

“Yeah, well, if it keeps them from starving someday, then I ain’t sorry,” whispered Jack. “But I ain’t crazy enough to start stealing big again and then take it to the Refuge. That’s stupid, Race. It ain’t gonna work. And what if Finch gets caught? We know what’ll happen to him.”

Race rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, I know.” He rolled back inside. “I’m doing this, Jacky,” he said. “You’d want someone to do it for you, and you know it.”

Race was right, and Jack did know it. Jack rested his head back against the railing and watched the sky.

Jack watched Race bring home clothes and food that he stored in the bunk room. How he got some of this stuff Jack would never know. Jack just shook his head. The problem was the pile got so big that by Friday, Race couldn’t carry it all himself. Jack knew this was a one-time delivery. Once Snyder and the rest saw the clothes, and they would, Race and Jack would have to come up with a different way to smuggle things in. But at least maybe the kids in there would get the food, even just this once. Jack made sure the littles were in bed, and joined Race in the alley with a sack. He liked Race, even if he had stupid ideas like this. But how could Jack expect to live with himself if he didn’t help? How desperate had he been when he was in there? Jack swallowed as he thought about it, and kept going.

The corner Race said Finch would be waiting at was dark. Race gave a low whistle, which was immediately answered by Finch. The wall was higher than they remembered, though, so Race had to stand on Jack’s back to come close to heaving the bags over. One bag. Done. The second bag wasn’t as easy. It was heavier, and Race tried and tried with no luck. Jack’s arms were wearing out. “Hurry up, Race. Let’s go,” he whispered.

Jack felt Race leap off of his back. “Run!” he shouted. Jack leapt up, trying to see which way Race went, but couldn’t see him. Jack was flung back and pinned down by a giant someone. Jack fought. He fought like he’d never fought before. Punching, kicking, scratching, pulling, kneeing. No, this isn’t going to happen. He’s not going back. Not ever. All he could hear were grunts and shouts. The gravel dug into his chest and face as this person turned him onto his stomach and twisted his arm up behind him. Jack didn’t care if he broke his arm. He kept struggling and twisting until it all went black.

Jack came to, the room blurry. A nightmare. Not this cell. Please, no. Race. Where was Race? Maybe it wasn’t the Refuge. Maybe a police station. Or somewhere, anywhere else. Maybe he was still dreaming. He felt the concrete under his hands and head. Could he move? Slowly, his head heavy, he looked around. It was this cell. His goodbye present. Jack put his head back down, to wait. No hurry to let them know he was awake.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there. The cell door opened with a long creak and familiar boots walked up to him. Jack saw the boot go back and come at him, kicking him in the stomach. He groaned and rolled. Another kick. And another. Jack kept turning, trying to avoid them, but couldn’t. His stomach again. And again. Jack moaned. Someone grabbed his hair and pulled his head up. He opened his eyes and saw Snyder. The punch across the jaw drew blood. He felt it dripping down his chin.

“Couldn’t get enough, could you, boy?” Snyder smiled. “Couldn’t help stealing again, could you? I guess I didn’t do a good enough job with you last time here in this cell. I’ll be sure to do better now.” Jack blinked slowly. His head was pounding. “Get up, boy.”

Jack pushed himself up and leaned against the wall, trying not to fall.

“Do I really need to tell you to get your shirt off?” Jack thought he was going to pass out. It had been so long. He wasn’t ready for this. The shirt dropped off onto the floor.

“Get against the bars.” Jack staggered over, grabbing the bars to steady himself. The familiar handcuffs pulled his hands up over his head and pulled his body against the bars.

“How many will cure you, Kelly? Obviously my work earlier had no effect. You tell me. You help me, boy,” Snyder continued. Jack wondered if he was supposed to reply. A punch to his side. He sucked in some air. “Give me a number, Kelly, or you get twice what you left with.”

Jack couldn’t remember. “Twenty,” he mumbled.

“Oh, no, Jack, you don’t remember. I’ll help you remember, then,” said Snyder. And the horsewhip came down. Jack cried out in agony. “And the more noise you make, the more you get. Only a coward makes noise, Jack, remember? And you are a coward. But if you count, maybe I’ll think you’re brave.”

Another crack. Jack stifled a cry. Again. Again. Again. “Count, Jack, or we’ll be here a while.” Crack.

“One, sir.” Jack started. He couldn’t believe he could speak. “Two, sir. Three, sir…” Jack counted, and counted. He tasted the blood in his mouth. That must be blood on his back. A guard took over so Snyder could watch Jack’s face. The beauty of the barred door, Snyder had said. Jack tried looking up. He tried looking down, his breathing heavy and his face sweaty. Always counting. Was he counting? Or was it just in his head? The whip never stopped. Even. Relentless.

“Stop,” said Snyder. Jack hung there, waiting for him to start again. Suddenly Jack was released, and he collapsed to the floor.

“I hope you will start to learn, boy. But you are so stupid. Only a useless, ignorant boy needs to be reminded to be good as much as you do.” Snyder kicked Jack in the stomach again before taking the whip and adding five more blows.

“Two days,” Snyder said to the guard.

Race

Race ran for his life. Jack could run faster, so he didn’t worry. He got back to the lodge, completely exhausted and out of breath. Had he ever run so far, so fast in his life? He waited for Jack. He watched the clock, and waited. Where was he? Wouldn’t he come straight back here? Where else would he go? An hour passed. Two hours. Race felt jumpy. Finally, he left the lodge and went back through the streets. Maybe he got mugged on the way back. He checked alleys, he checked stairwells. At long last he reached the Refuge itself, and he went around the corner. It’s not like Jack would stay here, he thought to himself. No sign of Jack. Snyder’s office light was on, though. What was he doing up? That wasn’t like him, Race knew. Unless something unusual had happened. Like... shit. No. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Jack didn’t even want to do this. Was he...? Race backed away from the Refuge. Now what. He had to get him out of there. Think, Race. Get someone smarter than you.


	10. Chapter 10

Jack lay on the floor for two days. The first day the guard came with two buckets of water and slopped them over him. He handed Jack a cloth and told him to clean up. Jack wondered how he was supposed to do that, but he tried. He ate the roll the guard brought him on the second day.

He dreamed about his mother for the first time in a long time. What would she think of him, jailed for the second time. Stealing. Fighting. Even begging. He had thought about her more as he told the littler newsies her stories, but only now did he start feeling sad. He didn’t want to cry or be sad in front of the littles. They cried already and came to him to feel better. If he cried, he’d just scare them. A tear ran down his cheek. If she’d stayed, maybe they’d still be in their apartment. Maybe he could have found a better job. In a store. He could ask people if he could help them, and they’d smile at how helpful he was, and compliment his boss. His clothes would fit well. He’d look nice. He’d smile at the lady customers and they’d smile back, thinking he was handsome. His boss would give him a holiday gift to take home to his mother. A ham. He’d buy her a rocking chair and would make arrangements for a weekly delivery of coal, whether they needed it or not. Mama would be proud of him, taking care of her. He’d buy her a new dress and new shoes. Pretty ones. She’d kiss him on the cheek, her soft cheek pressed on his face. She’d hold his face in her hands and tell him how proud she was of him. Jack scratched at the concrete. His back hurt so bad. Quit crying, idiot. Work in a store, right. He wouldn’t know what kind of dress to buy. She’d laugh at him. No wonder she went away. Ignorant reject.

“Up, boy.” Jack looked up at the guard. “Get dressed, Kelly.”

Jack took his shirt and pulled himself up on the wall. He let himself be led back to the mill, the guard’s iron grip on his arm. Twelve hour shift, he knew. He could do that. He started to work. It was so hot in there. Sweat trickled down his back, stinging his whip marks. His stomach hurt where Snyder had kicked him. His shirt stuck to him. But he worked. Jack didn’t think about much. Just the other day he was telling stories. Him and Crutchie and his dumb jokes. Free. Stop. Just work, Kelly.

Twelve hours passed. The whistle blew, and Jack lined up with everyone else to go to the dining hall. Snyder stopped the line.

“Kelly, step out,” Snyder ordered. Jack stepped out of line. “You did not learn a work ethic or acquire any discipline your last time here. We must do better this time, mustn’t we.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack answered as cockily as he dared. What did he have to lose.

Snyder came down the line and stood in front of Jack. He hit Jack in the mouth. Jack felt his lip split and blood start going down his chin again. Jack lifted his head. Snyder hit his chin, snapping Jack’s head back. Jack put his sleeve up to his chin to wipe the blood. Another hit, this time his eye.

“You have two choices, boy. You can work another six hours with the second shift, or you can take another beating.” Snyder stretched out the strap between his hands. Jack wiped more blood off of his chin with his sleeve. He wiped more sweat from his forehead with the palm of his hand. He couldn’t take another whipping now.

“Six hours, sir,” he said. He started to get back into line.

“Get back to work,” Snyder ordered. Jack stopped. Was he going to get something to eat? “Second shift starts now. If you’d chosen the strap, you’d get some dinner. Too late now.”

Jack pressed his lips together, tasting the blood again. He went back to work. If he fell from exhaustion, or made a mistake, he’d get a beating anyway. He was so tired. His back burned. His face swelled. He worked. And worked. Sweat. Hungry. Six hours. Sweat. Hungry. He hardly noticed when he was tossed back into his cell. He slept until another kick woke him up. Time to work. A short breakfast. Twelve hours. His legs shook. His vision blurred. He held on to the machines so he wouldn’t collapse. Line up.

“Work or whipping.” Snyder was in front of him.

Jack knew he couldn’t stand for another six hours. “Whipping, sir.” He stepped out of line, peeled off his shirt, and put his hands on the table by the door. Everyone watched.

Snyder walked around behind, snapping the strap between his hands. “Silence.” Jack dropped his head, waiting. Ten blows nearly brought Jack to his knees. His breath shaky, Jack waited for more. No way was everyone going to see him break. He ain’t gonna beg here in front of everyone.

“Why the silence, boy?” Snyder asked. “You know you are supposed to count. Let’s try this again.”

Jack blew a breath out. He squeezed his eyes. He wouldn’t cry. Not here. Snyder brought the strap down even harder. “One, sir...” Jack started. He got to ten somehow. He tried to straighten.

“I say when you’re done, boy,” said Snyder through his teeth. Three more blows. Eleven, sir. Twelve, sir. Thirteen, sir. “Now you’re done.”

Jack was allowed to eat.

Day after day, Jack thought about food, beatings, and work. Thinking about anything else was too hard.

Jack heard the voice before he saw the person it belonged to. A big man, with spectacles and a cigar. Fat, Jack thought. It dawned on him that he’d seen this man in the papes he once sold. Roosevelt. What was he doing here? Running for office. Pretending to care about orphans. Jack kept working. Roosevelt would walk through, shake hands with Snyder, and nothing would change.

“Jack Kelly!” Snyder’s voice boomed. Jack froze. “Kelly!”

Jack went and stood in front of Snyder and Roosevelt, hands behind his back. “Sir?” he asked tensely. He let the sweat run down his face.

“Mr. Roosevelt has purchased some of our textiles for his own use, to support our cause in rehabilitating criminals like you. His order is up by the door. Mr. Roosevelt wants you to take it to his carriage,” said Snyder, looking with disgust at Jack. “Evidently you have a mutual acquaintance. And don’t try anything funny. You’ll be guarded.”

Jack looked at Roosevelt. “Yes, sir.” He didn’t understand, but he went to the door and loaded the order onto his shoulder. He staggered under the weight, but made his way to the entrance and then the waiting carriage. The driver opened the rear door and Jack unloaded the materials onto the back seat, almost losing his balance. Someone pulled his arm hard and he fell onto the floor of the back seat. He was quickly covered by the material as he heard the guard give a howl of pain.

“Stay down and be quiet,” Medda said fast and low. “How dare you!” she screamed. “Mr. Roosevelt! Help! Help me, someone!” The driver blocked the guard from approaching the carriage. Roosevelt rushed out.

“He tried to molest me!” Medda cried, pointing at the guard. She shook the eight-inch hatpin in her hand. “I had to defend myself! Oh, I need a doctor!”

Roosevelt exchanged angry words with Snyder and jumped into the front of the carriage. The driver cracked his whip and away they went.

Jack trembled under the pile of material. Was this going to work? How in the world was he in the carriage with both Miss Medda and Roosevelt? If they got caught, Jack would probably spend the rest of his life in prison, he thought.

It wasn’t long before the carriage stopped and Miss Medda whispered to him through the cloth. “Get out, Jack. Stay out of sight until it gets dark, then come to the theater.” Jack slipped out of the carriage and headed straight for the nearest alley. The carriage left. Out of sight. It felt like the whole world was probably looking for him. He grabbed the nearest fire escape, pulled down the ladder, and climbed onto the roof.


	11. Chapter 11

Jack

Jack stood on the rooftop, hands on his knees, breathing hard. He was out. Free again. He couldn’t even fathom how Medda had come to get him, how fast it had all happened. Why would she do that? He wasn’t all that special. There were still a lot of kids in there. Snyder liked beating him the most, it seemed like, but still. Who knows why she did that.

Jack lay on his stomach, resting his head on his arms. It was windy, but he liked just resting. No work. No abuse. He was hungry, but then when wasn’t he. He had hours before it got dark. He was a runaway now, though. A fugitive. He’d seen headlines and illustrations of fugitives. Anything was better than being in the Refuge. He could steal or sell papes or run messages and stay anywhere he wanted. Up here would be good. He laughed a little at the thought of Snyder climbing up the fire escape. No way he’d sneak up on him up here. He liked staying at the lodge, though. Okay, so stay a newsie. He could still sleep up on the roof once the littles were asleep. He had missed them finding him and asking for a story. He’d have to think of some good ones for tonight. Except he didn’t have any money. Again. He couldn’t stay there just yet. Back to the beginning. He’d have to steal money this time, maybe pick someone’s pocket. Begging was too public now. Just one pocket, though. Just to get him started. Or he could run messages for a little while and sleep up here until he saved up some money to be a newsie again.

He thought about Miss Medda. What would he say to her when he went to the theater tonight? How could he repay her for getting him out of jail? Maybe he could sweep for her every night for as long as she wanted. He could run errands for her. Or help with anything she said. Maybe he could learn to cook for her. Anything. He wondered how to repay Roosevelt. If Jack showed up in Roosevelt’s neighborhood, he’d be arrested for vagrancy within in two minutes. He’d ask Miss Medda what to do about that.

The sun began to go down. Should he pick someone’s pocket on the way to the theater? He’d have to see. Maybe he should wait. If he got caught he’d be back in the Refuge without ever seeing Miss Medda. He could do it later if he wanted.

Jack waited until it was completely dark before going down the fire escape. He walked quickly to Medda’s theater, careful not to bump anyone or look anyone in the eye. At the back door, he decided it was safer to just go in than to wait in the alley, so he entered without knocking and stood in the corner for moment to get his bearings. As he looked down the hall, Race was standing there, leaning against the wall, waiting for him. Jack gave an involuntary yelp of surprise. Race laughed at him.

“Glad you showed up, Jacky,” he said. “I thought you was gonna bail.”

Jack caught his breath. “Race, how ya doing.”

“I got some stuff for you,” Race said. “I got money for you to stay at the lodge tonight, and to buy papes for you tomorrow. I also got you this.” He held up a winter coat. “I owe you, Jacky. You gotta take it all or I’ll beat the crap out of you.”

Jack grinned. “You’d like to think so,” he said. He touched the coat. It wasn’t new, but it was warm. “You pay for this?” he asked, looking at Race.

“Course not, stupid,” Race said. “But I got it for you, so that’s something.”

Medda

I heard voices in the back hallway. The show was well under way, so I went back, hoping it was Jack back there. I stopped when I saw him talking to Racetrack. I don’t think I’d seen Jack smile before. It lit up his whole face. What happened to his face this time, I wondered, now that I was looking more carefully.

“Jack, baby, is that you?” I called. Jack looked past Race and saw me. Race moved out of his way, but Jack took only a couple of steps toward me.

“Miss Medda…” he started. He seemed unsure about what to say next.

“Jack Kelly, come here and give me a hug,” I said, holding my arms open. Jack came to me and let me hug him, but I felt him stiffen and pull away right away.

“Miss Medda, um, I’m just not feeling so good,” he said. “But thank you for breaking me out. I don’t know why you did that, but I’m real grateful, and I’ll do anything you want, forever, to pay you back,” he rushed on. “I’ll clean up the theater tonight and I can do your dishes and anything else you think of.”

I looked at him more closely. Snyder must really like hitting that boy in the face, I have to say. And the hug. What was I thinking. If what Race said was true… “Jack, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you with a hug.”

“It’s nothing, Miss Medda,” he said, looking down. “Just let me know where I should get started.”

“Let’s sit down first,” I said. “You don’t always have to work, Jack.” He gave me a very uncomfortable look. I led him to my costume room and pointed at the chair I wanted him to sit in. “Now, did Race tell you about staying in the lodge tonight and getting newspapers tomorrow?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jack said. “He didn’t need to do that. I found a real nice spot to stay until I get some money.”

“You will take the money from Race,” I said.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. He shifted around in his seat. I noticed he didn’t let his back rest on the back of the chair. He also wasn’t going to tell me anything about that. “Miss Medda, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, honey, what is it?” I had wondered when he was going to ask this.

“How did you get Roosevelt to get me out of the Refuge?” he asked. “Won’t he get in trouble now?”

“We are acquaintances, and let’s leave the dealings of this whole arrangement to me and Mr. Roosevelt. Now, do you know what ‘deniability’ is?” I asked. Jack shook his head.

“Did Mr. Roosevelt see you get in the carriage?” I asked, and again Jack shook his head. “Did he see you get out of the carriage?”

“I don’t think so,” Jack replied.

“Then Mr. Roosevelt can truthfully say he never saw you in his carriage. He rushed me to his home and summoned the doctor, and that was his priority,” I said, as smoothly as I knew how.

“So he won’t get in trouble?” Jack asked, somewhat confused.

“Not likely.”

“I’m a fugitive,” he said. “They’re looking for me.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But you have friends now who will help you. And you can come here anytime you need a place to lay low.” Jack nodded, uncertain about what that meant. I don’t think he wanted to trust me on that, but he also seemed to see he might not have a choice.

“Can I get to work now?” he asked.

“Jack, let’s feed you first. You’re hungry, aren’t you?” I said, standing up. “I’ve got leftovers from dinner.”

“No, Miss Medda. I ain’t taking anything more from you. Maybe I’ll find another dime,” he said, looking up at me. I sighed. This boy. I’d have to drop a dime on the floor somewhere for him to find and let him buy my leftovers from me.

I gestured to the door with my arm. “Yes, please, get to work, then, the sooner the better. This place is in desperate need of your attention.”

Crutchie

Jack wasn’t quite the same at night anymore. He had more dreams. He yelled in his sleep. Sometimes he would count and twist around so I had to pull the blanket back over me. I never told him what he said or if he woke me up, because sometimes he woke himself up and would tell me a million times how sorry he was. Once, when he was yelling, I started talking to him about what we would have for dinner tomorrow, and he calmed down. I made the mistake of touching his arm once and ended up with a black eye, and he felt awful about that. He bought me lunch for a week. He got better, though. Didn’t no one ever bother me once we started selling together again. Jack didn’t put up with that. With my crutch and his fists, we did okay.

A Little

Jack came back! He was all beat up, though. He said that didn’t make no difference with how he told a story, so he told us a lot of them every night. Sometimes I’d sit close enough that I could kind of pretend I was getting a hug. Once I fell asleep on him, and he just put me in bed when he was done with the story. I told him how hungry I was one time when I hadn’t sold a lot of papes, so he told me to follow him the next morning. He made me wait about a block away from a grocery store, and he came back with all kinds of food for me. He must have sold a lot of papes to get that much. He gave me the food and then looked across the street. He told me to beat it, now, so I ran. Jack went down the other street. Later he said he thought he saw someone watching us, but didn’t nothing happen, so maybe he was wrong.

Jack

Jack worked for Miss Medda as much as he could. He could never repay her, but he would try. It was handy to know the good hiding places in the theater. He used them.

He didn’t like people touching him, though. He wanted to crawl into a hole and die when he saw what he did to Crutchie one night. And the littles liked being near him, which was okay when he was telling them stories, but it was hard if they wanted to jump or wrestle around. He was afraid he’d hurt them if he was startled. Race understood. Race made sure to do more of that kind of thing with them.

Jack still stole, but not as much. Only when the littles needed something he couldn’t afford did he steal. He still taught the littles to steal, because who knew if they’d need to do it if he wasn’t around to do it for them. It only seemed right.

It only seemed right.


End file.
